


Horse Flesh For Dinner, Something Softer For Brunch

by WonderAss



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A Dollop Of, Aftercare, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Catching Feelings From A One-Night Stand, Clothed Sex, Doggy Style, Dominance, Exhibitionism, Eye Contact, F/M, Facials, Female Reader, It's The Wholesome Foursome, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, Marking, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Slow Build, Smut, Spitroasting, Sprinkles Of, Touch-Starved, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voice Kink, Voyeurism, gentle dominance, hark, then...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: You work the stables for the Braithwaites, unhappy and despondent as only an unappreciated day laborer can be. When three unusual men approach you asking about purchasing horses...you catch your first glimmer of hope in years.





	1. Cinnamon Sentiments

 

Sometimes this life feels the part of a grainy film reel on loop. Not that you had a lot of time to watch those.

The same wheelbarrows and hoofbeats. The endless sweltering days branding the back of your neck. Dismissive sneers and unwelcome leers, as monotonous as the birds in the trees. You lean up from the growing pile of straw and undesirables to mop at the sweat on your brow with the back of one hand. Repetitive days. Grueling days. More suited to a boring mill than a beating heart. Repetitive, grueling work that _pays_ , yes, but sometimes...you wonder just why you keep going. Like a sleeping horse you keeping standing out of instinct. Little else.

No, that's...not quite right. Even horses had to dream, sometimes. These thoughts depress you so suddenly the grip on your pitchfork weakens. Shaking your head you grip the handle tight and stab into another hay barrel. Once you were done it was mopping and sweeping the stables. The sooner you got that task done, the better. The only thing worse than a horse slipping on a wet patch was a Braithwaite, though not by much.

" _Hey!_ "

You stand swiftly and turn to Elijah, sitting high on his powerful Mustang by the gate. The supervisor has a bottle in his hand, the other adjusting his day hat. You walk over as quickly as you can, clapping dirt off your palms.

"Got a few buyers comin' in through the front. Told James they're looking to stock up a new stable. You show 'em around and tell 'em what they need to know, all right?"

Wait...buyers? That wasn't your jurisdiction. You straighten your back (wincing as the day pronounces itself in a sharp pang right between your shoulderblades) and put on a tone you hope comes off more convincing than nervous.

"Wouldn't it be better to set up another appointment-"

"You _heard_ me." Elijah sniffs. "Show them around, tell 'em about the ranch. Braithwaites don't want to miss out on a good purchase and I got places to be."

Places to be. He's going to get drunk on the clock. You know it, he knows it. Elijah peers down his sunburnt nose at you, waiting for a rebuke, and you just lower your gaze and nod. What were you going to tell _this_ man, on the Braithwaites' day off the estate, no less? To shove that bottle where the sun doesn't shine and sneeze cider? You rack your brain and try to think of any gossip you heard about buyers coming in, stomach shrinking into a raisin when you just come up dry. The Braithwaites are _highly_ selective about their time. A surprise visit like this would only be allowed if it was an offer even _they_ couldn't refuse.

"...Understood. What do I tell them?" You ask, desperate for _anything_ that could keep this already tenuous situation from going south. Elijah takes a swig of his beer and just reins his horse around.

"Tell them about _horses_ , you stupid girl." He trots through the gate and down the path. "That's your job, innit?"

No, your job is to clean stables and look after the horses' health. _Not_ a professional scapegoat. Your work's stressful enough without adding brand new responsibilities to your resume (and little to no input from the higher-ups, at that). With no one around to hear you heave a sigh and start to fumble with your clothes. With most of the horses out there hasn't been much to stick to your boots, but you scuff your heels into the grass, anyway. Rubbing at stains in your dress and dabbing away sweat in a meager, last-minute attempt to look presentable.

There are dark strips of dirt under your nails and hay sticking to the hem of your dress. ...No. There's no way you're coming out of this situation in one piece. Either they'll take one look at you and turn right back around, leaving everyone at the estate angry at the missed opportunity...or they'll stick around and be thoroughly unimpressed with your everything. A cold, thin line of panic slides down your sternum. Should you find one of the cleanest barrels and rinse your face off? You're clean, just _sweaty_ , but that might not be enough-

The drum of hoofbeats sounds off down the long path leading to the front gate. You jerk around, peering through the glare of the day at the estate's newest visitors. The one in front waves a hand once he's in earshot.

"Good afternoon, miss."

It's not their armaments that raise your hackles. The countryside was filled to the _brim_ with travelers, workers and civilians alike with guns on their waists and rifles on their backs. It's not even their builds, a trio of wiry, lean and burly. It's the way they _move_. Their stances are confident, heads held high and shoulders back in a way that doesn't quite replicate bowler hats in the big city. No...no, you think more of wild animals. Pure, leaden arrogance. Not just aware of the unknown, but the unknown itself.

That's not even where it ends. Their horses are _beautiful_. One's a delicate American paint, shining coat scattered ink on paper. Another appears to be a Hungarian Half-bred, stocky and of a fine brown coat, loose white mane tossed over its face in a way that's almost boyish. The leader's horse -- the man that greeted you first, studying you with a tilt to his head -- might be the most striking of them all. A Dutch warmblood, shining nickel silver in the sunlight with proud black stockings and a long mane. It's only when you tear your gaze away from the powerful legs and glistening coats do you notice the scars.

A scratch on the broad side of a neck. A nick in the ear. Quite a _lot_ of them...now that you think about it. Your eyes flick to the riders, then the horses, then the riders again, a conclusion blooming in the back of your mind. Men with scars. Scars on their knuckles, scars on their horses...so many they couldn't _just_ be from passing tree branches. All surface details beneath a confident aura that seems to displace the very grass itself.

"...Good afternoon." You manage, brushing a frizzy strand from your eyes. The leader tips his hat down at you with a smile.

...These are _dangerous_ men.

You watch this man hop off his horse with a soft grunt, followed by his two peers. Your eyes are drawn to his thick arms, corded veins prominent even in the bright light, and you can't remember the last time you met someone with such a _broad_ chest. A burly workhorse, your imagination supplies, (underfed it clearly is with your long hours around stables). It's only when he takes off his hat and holds it to his chest (like he's talking to a mistress) do you get a better look at his face. A strong jaw, contrasted by almost wispy blonde hair, swept out of place from the ride. Baby blue eyes and full, soft lips, more suited to one of the Braithwaite's priceless paintings than a hard man freshly stepped off the trail. Like a skittish stallion you can sense the discomfort before you see it.

You've been staring.

"...We're here to see about some horses?" He murmurs in a voice smoother than rum, in that kind of tone people used when repeating themselves. ... _Oh_. You shake out of your reverie with no small amount of embarrassment. Goodness. It's a well-practiced line you manage to thread from your head to your mouth, but reciting it in front of these three leaves has you shaking like a leaf.

"Y-Yes. You've come to the right place." You glance down at smudge on your dress. You don't want to seem rude, but the heat of the day (or his hypnotizing gaze) is making you feel light-headed. "The Braithwaites have been breeding and selling horses for over a century. Nowhere will you find a prouder stock, nor a more dignified lineage."

"Sounds great. We're lookin' to make a right proud investment." A scratchier voice says. "Do some breedin's."

The speaker behind him is a man damn near the _opposite_. He's just as tall, but lean and mean, an angular, dirty duster and worn hat making his stance imposing where his build is lacking. His dark hair is a mess, straggled long enough to brush his (very wide) shoulders, but it doesn't quite hide the scars. Goodness. You've never _seen_ so many scratches on one face. The rodeo champions you've glimpsed during your years here gloating about their battle scars seem little more than schoolchildren. You wonder, so acutely you can almost feel it, what those old wounds would feel like beneath your fingertips.

"...Good." You say, uselessly, and glance down at the smudge again, acutely aware of your hands' unladylike callouses and uneven tone. You chide yourself for forgetting your notebook, though it's a ridiculous thought. How often are you put in a business position like this, however brief? "Which breeds are you looking for, sirs?"

"Any, as long as they're the best." The last buyer adds, leaning a shoulder against the white gate and angling his long brown neck to soak up the sun.

This man...he wouldn't be out of place in a romance novel, the ones you snuck readings of during your rare free time (when you got over your embarrassment, that is). His eyes are dark as ink, shadowed beneath a stylish trilby. Long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, loose strands framing an angular, handsome face currently stern with focus. You can already tell this is a gentleman whose smile could charm the feathers right off a bird. His vest is sharp and startlingly clean, a yellow ascot tucked neatly into his collar, and even his hands are composed, thumbs hooked in his belt loops like another accessory. You think again to your worn work shoes. Your unkempt hair.

It's growing harder and harder to think, much less talk. Oh, this is an _unusual_ day...but not quite unwelcome.

You flick your hand for them to follow, then turn and walk up to the stable's front doors. The shade beneath the overhang immediately freezes the sweat on your back, blissful and embarrassing, all at once. It was never just one humiliation working on Braithwaite land. This meeting with three handsome men currently giving you their undivided attention just _had_ to be on your most exhausted and overheated day. ... _Mostly_ undivided, anyway. The one with scars keeps glancing about, in a way that suggests he's less interested in the land and more trying to _find_ something. Maybe he was wondering where all these prized horses were.

It hits you, then, that you might have to entertain them a little longer than you thought.

"After you."

The subtle presence of another hovers over your shoulder. The man in the trilby is leaning a hand on the doorway, the other hovering behind you. ...First staring. _Now_ standing and staring off into nothing in a stupor. You swallow and step into the stable, acutely aware of its every creak in a way you haven't been before.

"This is where we keep the horses." You start, already overwhelmed by how silly you sound, and draw your shoulders back. You resist the urge to rub at flyaway hairs stuck to the nape of your neck. "It's been a busy few months here. Normally we would have one of our overseers meet with you..."

A stream of basic babble soothes your nerves somewhat. This is what you know. Maybe you're not as lovely as upper-class girls with their little lacy umbrellas and glittering throats, nor as curvy as a barmaid, but...you can do _this_. You can summarize hundreds of years of horse breeding without ever opening up a book. You can spot a sick horse a mile away and soothe a stressed one with just a few pets. Education was one thing, but you have years of hard work and intuition at your fingertips. Perhaps the Braithwaites would never recognize it, but you could tell these men what they needed to know, what they _wanted_ to hear...and do your job better than they ever could.

' _...and maybe impress them enough they'd hire me instead._ '

You resist the urge to slap yourself. What a childish, outlandish thought! You don't know them. Even if you _did_ , why would they be so quick to take a chance on you, penniless and plain? It's just...they've shown you more respect and deference in fifteen minutes than your employers have in years.

Achilles is dozing when you lead the group to the lone occupied stall. Poor thing will still be out of commission for another two weeks, though it's good he's finally resting after that complication with the vet. The potential buyers actually chuckle when you tell them of the distinct irony of this horse being kept in the stable for a heel injury. It's a small victory, but...you'll take it.

"Gorgeous, though." The scarred one adds. You nod your agreement. The Tennessee Walker is a newer breed, but one you hope will grow in popularity. You always loved to see them in action. When you turn back around he's not admiring the horse...but _you_.

"More than that." You manage, reaching over to stroke Achilles' neck. The feel of his silky coat soothes your thumping heart, but only just. "Our horses are healthy, carefully bred _and_ have several awards to their name. We collaborate with seven stables across the state to ensure quality over quantity. You won't find mongrel breeds or rhuemy-eyed mares here."

They hang on your every word, only occasionally glancing to one another in a silent conversation. Your throat grows thick, and not entirely with unease. You wonder if you maybe overestimated the state of yourself today. It's not an altogether awful outfit, not with the Braithwaites still snobbish enough to want their lowest rung to blend into the scenery, but...oh, _nothing_ like any of these men. Whatever they did, they took their work seriously. The one in the trilby cocks a scarred brow when you look again to his outfit. You look down to a speck of dust on your dress and rub at it.

"You know a lot." He says. It isn't a question. It might just be a compliment.

"A fair bit." You admit, ignoring the prickle of pride in your heart. The leader jerks his chin at you.

"How much you usually sell them for? Just...trying to get an estimate before we invest."

You have to backtrack a little, but you give them a rough estimate based on the snatches of business you've caught in-between back-and-forth errands. Their eyes light up. It's an...interesting response to being told their purchases are more than some people's _homes_ , but perhaps that was just it. They only wanted the best. Whoever they're working for must be very ambitious, indeed. Doubt settles nice and firm in your mind. You try not to let it show on your face as you clear your throat, turn to the leader and ask:

"Who...do you work for again?"

"We represent a new stable and stud farm." He gives you a charming little smile. "From, uh, Saratoga."

"What's it called?"

"Doesn't have a name yet."

...Interesting.

"Well...I'm sorry you came out all this way only to wait." You bow your head a little, genuinely contrite. To think, something you originally dreaded has turned out to be the only bright spot on your week! A small note of hope creeps into your voice. "Maybe you can tell me a little more about it? Your new stable..." You trail off, heart sinking when the three of them just squint at you. The leader is the first to speak, again. Sounding rather apologetic himself.

"We'd, uh...love to do that, but we were just hoping to, ah, get our purchases and go." His smile is slow and careful. You study the laugh line blooming in his cheek, your heart already aching at the fond memory just a few minutes away.

"Oh." You return the sentiment, as best you can. "Of course. Well. It won't be for another few hours, I'm afraid. Most of the Braithwaites are out of the county right now."

That soft smile freezes. The man slowly turns and slides a _very_ terse, _very_ curious look over his shoulder at his two peers. It's an expression you've seen a good few times among your employers' and their business partners, where glances and nods were just as much a dialect as a deep Texan drawl. When he turns back around anger is simmering off him like a heat wave.

"... _What?_ "

"They're...out. For a show." You repeat, carefully, confusion prickling the back of your neck. "The Braithwaites attend a yearly horse show over in Saint Denis. People from all across the world attend."

How would they not know about it? Pretty much every stable you know of has at least a few of their stock sent out for reputation's sake, at the very least. Well. It's not good news for them. _That_ much is clear. The leader practically spins around to huddle close and confer with the others in low tones. You shift from foot to foot awkwardly.

"Well, we'll just wait a bit-"

"And risk being recognized?"

"Would you _relax_ , they still have them-"

The man in the trilby strokes his mustache, casting apologetic glances your way. The scarred one is rolling his eyes to the sky.

"Look, I just know I'm not going through with the _usual_ routine..."

"Of _course_ not, I'm just saying-"

"Can't take that one, not with the ankle-"

Their vague answers. Their polite, yet cagey behavior. One ingredient after another is tossed into the pot, stirring together into a conclusion. ...These aren't horse buyers.

You don't know _what_ they are, but they're the furthest possible thing from the Braithwaites' usual clientele outside of an alligator in a suit and top hat. The buyers you've glimpsed in the past (when you weren't cloistered away shoveling manure) are arrogant, yes, but of the pithy, snooty type that can only come with status. Sons of mayors with 'old money', daughters connected to bankers. Not men with dusty jeans and battleworn steeds. Men who reminded you less of inbred elites and more of cowboys.

Gunslingers, even.

Thinking quickly is a side-effect of being a stable worker with no ties, you think, of a working-class woman with no friends and no future. When a Braithwaite or _any_ worker a notch higher than you on the ladder is in a bad mood you suddenly have another chore that needs doing. A shady buyer that stares at you overlong? You take a walk to the main estate closer to the possessive eyes of Catherine's sons. Maybe they didn't think much of you, but no rich type liked seeing their things tampered with. It's a poison you've had to pick _more_ than once.

The more these men mutter and grumble among themselves, the faster you think. You've dreamt of another life outside of these painted picket fences...but what did that even _mean?_ Dreams cost money. Money you didn't _have_. Even hope hasn't kept you warm, not when the loneliness has continued to freeze you over so slowly you wondered if you ever felt anything anymore. The ice has cracked, now. Hope is bursting through you and threatening to make you do something very, very, very, very, _very_ foolish.

"...I can help you steal them."

The men stop talking. One-by-one they slowly turn in the stable doorway, expressions shadowed against the day's light, but their surprise clear as crystal.

"...Excuse me?" The scarred one says, squinting like he can hardly see you through the disbelief.

"The horses." You repeat, voice a tiny frog quivering in your throat. "I can help you steal them."

It's dead silent for what feels like minutes and minutes. Then the man in the trilby _laughs_ , tossing his head with a hoarse bark that startles Achilles awake. The stallion flicks his head, peering one moody black eye at the group. Your instinct is to soothe, pass a hand over his nose...but what you've said has rooted you to the spot. The breath in your chest prickles into frost, crawling tight up your throat. ...Did you truly just say that? What if one of the _other_ stablehands is in earshot? What if someone just heard you try to screw over one of the oldest and most powerful families in the state?

The one with scars slowly adjusts the collar of his grungy duster, dark gaze suspicious. The leader clears his throat once, twice. He is so very, _very_ tall as he studies you from head-to-toe. Like you've just tried to brag down a mountain.

"You want to help _us_..." He drawls, picking his way through each syllable. "...steal _your_ horses."

"They're not mine." You respond, instantly. "They're the Braithwaites'."

You're not the type to spit -- at least, not for show -- and the urge to stain this fine floor with the sentiment overwhelms you like it never has before. There's no need, though. They can clearly hear the hate in your voice. The scarred 'horse buyer' even leans back a little, with an impressed, if still disbelieving, little half-smile. 

"Okay?" He huffs through his nose. "Steal _how?_ "

"I know their schedule." You start, shakily, before your mind blanks and leaves you stranded. "Their stop and start points. Their routes from here to Annesburg. Who they work for, what they charge, I...I've been here long enough I couldn't forget it if I _wanted_ to. I also...hear things. Sometimes the other stablehands talk. They don't notice me much. They don't really care."

"Why are you so keen on screwing over your employers?" He presses, narrowing his eyes and looking very mean, indeed. He doesn't deny your accusation -- and you're pathetically grateful you didn't _misinterpret_  their behavior -- but he doesn't embrace your keen eye, either. "Besides the obvious."

They all go silent and watch you. Patiently awaiting your answer. Your ears strain for a distraction; one of the supervisors coming back from hooky early, even a passing mailman on the road. There's nothing. All you can hear is the buzz of a fly outside and the soft snort of Achilles inside as the horse shifts into a more comfortable sleeping position.

...This is your chance.

"...I _hate_ them." You whisper, fists clenching, the strength you normally rely on suddenly draining to a weak, impotent prickle. "Oh, I hate them all so _much_. They've treated me terribly ever since I came here. The only reason I applied was...because I needed _work_. I had no choice. It was that or beg on the street. I don't have family to go back to. I don't have friends who could take me. All I know is horses, I can't even shoot a _gun_ , I didn't...I don't have options. I haven't for _years_." Now you move your hands up to your work bun, messy from the hot day. Your eyes grow hot. "...They won't even let me wear a _flower_ in my hair."

The silence is thick enough to bite. You don't know why you blurted out that last part, but it's just a sliver of this suffocating, elitist environment. Nothing about you matters. Not your voice, not your life. Even your _labor_ was sneered at, despite the fact it was needed to keep the stables up and running. You reach up and twist a finger in a loose strand of hair, filled with nervous energy and without your traditional outlet of scrubbing or brushing.

"I've wanted to leave for years, but they won't give me a good word. If they _did_ they know I'd leave as soon as possible. That's what they do, these Braithwaites. Buy everything and everyone and suck the life out of what they can't. I'm not trying...to be selfish, sirs, when I offer this. Let me help you. If you could just...give me a cut so I could finally _leave_..." Now you look back up. It's still hard to breathe, your lungs little more than stone in your chest, but it's out now. There's no changing that, and somehow the realization has you peaceful. "Even if I die a month later without any food or shelter, at least I'll die _free_."

The man in the trilby scoffs under his breath. It's not disdainful. It's a companionable laugh, as if he understands and has accepted this truth for a long, long time. It startles you, then, how much you're learning about these strangers in so _short_ a time. A crash course in a class you never signed up for. Your intuition on these men's dangerous lives might be more accurate than you realize.

"Well. Ain't you something."

You look up. The leader is rubbing his stubbled chin from side-to-side, pale gaze stripping you bare. It's stern, assessing...and just a little sad. You clasp your hands together and wait to hear what he has to say with no small amount of apprehension.

"Let's get one thing very clear. I don't appreciate being ripped off. Comes with the territory, you know." He hasn't so much as lifted a finger and his gaze feels like ropes around your wrists. You can't even look down at that smudge on your dress. "There's a _lot_ of bullshit stewing in this county, miss. Country was built on the concept. For all I know you've got your fingers in a few pies and just don't know where to stop." He leans on his heels, one hand holding his belt, rolling his jaw in deliberation. "...How many horses they keeping here?"

"Including Achilles, twenty." You answer, too quickly. "Thoroughbreds, Drafts and Arabians are the ones on sale. Most of the horses were taken to the show, with three sold today."

"We'll probably only have the means to take three or four." The one in the trilby adds under his breath. Their leader nods, eyes still not leaving you.

"And how much of a cut you talking about?"

You're already pushing your luck, but adrenaline is rippling through your veins, as ticklish as a shock on dry cotton. Giddy hope, pushing you to your breaking point.

"Fifty percent."

...and they all rear back and _hiss_ in unison. The one with scars looks like he's just been slapped. It would be funny, if it didn't make your stomach plummet right to your feet. The leader doesn't  _quite_  yell, but you can hear the urge quivering fiddle string tight in his throat.

"Fifty goddamn _percent?_ I look like a prize fool?" You gape, horrified, and the man crushes his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose. As if sucking the anger back in. He raises both hands, slowly. "Listen...miss. We ain't in the habit of dishonoring promises, but you have to offer more than just your help for _that_."

It can't be anything less. Not if you can get yourself a horse _and_ enough supplies to last you through your journey as far away from his wretched county as possible. The men before you look to each other, silently discussing again, the air in the stable not quite terse, not quite relaxed. It hits you, then, that the interest in their eyes has never _quite_ left. They don't stare at you like dirt on their heel, but...like _someone_. Possibility enters your world, like a crack of cool air through a window, and your eyes hone in at the way the leader rubs his jaw again. An unconscious tic, staring down at you with his brow furrowed and mouth parted ever so slightly, confused in that gently contradictory manner you've already come to associate with him.

You've already taken so many chances today. What's one more? You reach up to your dress strap, hooking a finger into your bra strap, too...and shift them both down your shoulder. The man's pale eyes widen as round as plates.

"Wait, _you_..." He starts, swiftly, then coughs behind one fist. "Ah...no. No, you don't have to do that."

"Anything you want." Your voice shakes, but your gaze is steady. "For fifty percent."

Your appearance is carefully maintained as someone owned by the Braithwaites only can, but thinking much _of_ it was another story entirely. The family didn't want any of their fieldhands having _too_ much identity, but they also insisted on appearances. Your lacy blouse and hair wrapped up was enough to keep from reflecting poorly on the estate. Once or twice you've sullied your dress out of sheer rebellion and you're grateful in hindsight you resisted the urge today. Surely...surely it will be _enough_.

You watch the changes flickering on this man's handsome face. Blue eyes drag over you, sliding down to linger meaningfully...then drift back up to hold your gaze. His voice drops an octave lower.

"When will they be back, again?"

"An hour or two, sir."

He glances over his shoulder at the two behind him. Both have recovered from their surprise with the familiar quickness you know of men, wearing similar expressions of pleasant surprise bleeding into curiosity. Then the leader turns back around, the simple movement decisive. You watch his lashes sink low, a dusty shade that frames the shrinking blue like cattails around a pond. His Adam's apple sinks and bobs in a slow, deliberate swallow you can hear.

"...All right, then."

Then he...changes.

It's not as obvious as dawn and night. It's...more the blurred area between dawn and dusk, indiscernible and yet so vivid as to take your _breath_ away. That stern set to his firm, square jaw softens at the edges. His eyes shift a little, restlessly, like they suddenly don't know where to land. You think of your younger days, when these sort of interactions seemed so very, _very_ alien.

"This...ain't how I thought today would go." He murmurs, more to himself, but there's no regret in his tone. Without further hesitation he fists a hand over his mouth, clears his throat again. "Well. It's only polite to exchange names, first."

Fear grips you white-knuckle tight. It's a business transaction. This is little more than a gesture of goodwill. It's just...your name is one of the few things you _truly_ own. Here you are, about to use your body as a bargaining chip, but _this_ is what has you digging your heels into the ground and bucking. Your own hesitation makes you wince. You must look so ungrateful. Maybe even untrustworthy. But no scorn comes your way. No second-thoughts, no curses, no threats. Just...understanding. The one in the trilby steps forward, hand outstretched.

"My name is Javier." It's a brief handshake, not an unfriendly one. He's not as tall as the other two, but the strength in his grip is startling. "It's nice to meet you."

The one with scars approaches next. Now that he's close it could only have been left by an animal; long cuts lancing into his cheek and across his nose and upper lip, so stark as to appear drawn on. You know you're staring again when a smile glints in his dark eyes.

"I'm John."

The leader of the outfit introduces himself last, holding his hat to his chest again and looking the part of a self-conscious suitor, so out-of-place in your mundane life you could faint then and there. His drawl is heavier than you've heard it so far...and his hand is so warm it burns.

"Arthur."

Then your mind finally _does_ go blank when he stands by your side and slides an arm around your waist. The musky scent of sweat and gunpowder fills your nose, sharp and heavy. The other two settle back, John with one hand on his belt and Javier with his arms crossed. A subtle, yet clear sign of letting someone else take control of the situation. Arthur leans down a little, the tip of his nose dusting your hair as he breathes you in.

"There someplace a little more private we could go?" He rumbles, hand a steady, warm weight on your hip.

You know _just_ the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote this
> 
> A whole mission where The Three Husbandos give or take a few, it's a big game go on a horse rustling trip? How could I _not_ run it through the Porn-O-Matic! I'm not usually a fan of writing _or_ reading /Reader-type fics, but Red Dead Redemption has been introducing a _lot_ of exceptions to my rule. I thought I'd give it a try.
> 
> I wanted to keep some details about the reader vague or outright unstated, right alongside a lack of name (Y/N doesn't do it for me, personally). I was _really_ torn whether or not the reader should even dialogue. At one point I was tempted to have them silent and just have the conversations implied by the responses given. If I get around to another one of these I _may_ try that.


	2. Moonshine Dreams

Your legs feel like jelly as you walk around the first set of stables to the storage room.

Every rustle startles you. Every new breath feels like it could be your last. You have a hundred different tall tales to spin should a Braithwaite arrive home prematurely and see you leading three strangers around the estate. You have a _thousand_ for Zachariah or Jacob, as it's highly doubtful Elijah actually _informed_ them of his little plan to shirk responsibility for the afternoon. You're more prepared than you've ever been for something to happen...

...but nothing does.

"Damn nice place." Whistles Arthur behind you. Javier puts on a laugh that only sounds a little forced.

"Oh, it's...quite something."

It's _too_ perfect.

The Braithwaites _would_ choose _now_ to show up and whisk these three away, with them your hopes and dreams, but you open the front door to the shed and peer around for a layabout and don't find one and _it doesn't happen_. As you lead the trio inside the spacious room -- larger than any other you've been to, the estate's wealth showing itself in every nook and cranny -- you don't catch so much as a _whiff_ of Elijah. Samuel. Tom. Jacob. Zachariah. All your co-workers are no doubt still off in the fields, enjoying every minute of their spoiled leisure (if they weren't passed out booze blind). As John hums under his breath you think, briefly, that this is a very competent form of revenge, indeed.

"Smells good in here." He scratches at his cheek with a raspy laugh that temporarily pokes a hole in your nerves. "They probably perfume the place."

Then the door clicks shut, the latch snaps together and you realize...you don't actually have any idea what the hell to _do_.

"Wealthy bastards." John is muttering under his breath, scarred nose wrinkling as he observes the fine wooden toolsets, then the aged leather saddles piled against the wall. "Seen cabins smaller than this."

"How much you think one of those will sell?" Javier asks, reaching out and running an appreciative finger over the ornate surface.

"Enough, _that's_ for damn sure."

Arthur is the only one that doesn't speak, an impassive presence at your back. They could take as much as they could carry, as far as _you_ were concerned. Whatever gave the Braithwaites the financial equivalent of a rainy day.

"They have moonshine, too." You whisper, and startle when John just turns a wolfish smile on you.

"Oh, we _know_."

What have you gotten yourself into? You linger by the door, wondering if you should start undressing or flirting or...doing _something_ to start fulfilling part of your bargain. There's no need. Arthur takes your hand and leads you over to the lone wooden chair against the wall. His partners-in-crime promptly look over their shoulders at that. Your mind flashes with grainy images of pack animal behavior. The alpha getting first pick, deciding what happens. Arthur places both (huge, heavy-) hands on your waist and turns you around to face him fully.

"You tell me what you like, girl." He says. "And what you don't like, you hear?"

Since when were words impossible? You have to swallow several times before speaking.

"Y-Yes, sir."

Arthur's eyes soften at that. Any and all metaphors or thoughts or concerns you could have evaporate when he cups your chin and angles your head up into a pliant, warm kiss. The musky taste of cigarettes and a hard day's ride fills your nose. It's hardly been a few seconds and you're already breathless. It's the kiss of a man who's loved before, loved _hard_ , and you're acutely, brutally aware of your limitations. He doesn't scorn you, though, and you don't hear the mocking laughter you've grown so used to in this place. Arthur lets out an insistent little grunt against your lips when you shake, hooking an arm around your waist to hold you closer.

"Don't be shy, miss." He murmurs, somehow soft and firm at the same time. "Go on, now." His blue eyes flick down, then up. "Touch me."

You trickle fingertips along his shoulders -- _impossibly_ wide, as firm as aged wood -- and press hands into that broad barrel chest. You kiss him back, heart hammering so hard it could crack your sternum. Arthur's hum of pleasure tingles pleasantly, only the faintest twitch to his mouth betraying humor at your nerves. He enjoys himself for a minute (you're _sure_ , anyway, with time feeling so muggy and slow), going slow with chaste presses and nips. When you open up for a breath (more a sigh) he slides his tongue in, tasting faintly of whisky. It registers, somewhere in the vague part of your mind, that John and Javier have stopped talking amongst themselves.

" _Now_ he chooses to be a romantic." John scoffs. Goodness, that man's _voice_. It sounds like a rustling briar patch. Coarse, just a _little_ husky, as if he's screamed himself hoarse and never quite recovered.

"Oh, hush. You'll get your turn." Arthur drawls back. "Not that you _could_ be romantic with a gun to your head."

There's a _long_ history between them. That couldn't be more clear. You prickle with worry that an argument could break out, but Javier only chuckles, sweet and smoky to your ears, like it's little more than a common bump. Then Arthur slumps down on the chair, pulling you into his lap by your hips. You fall back inelegantly, holding yourself upright in a desperate not to cut the hour short by hitting him (or crushing his crotch). He just chortles, a pleasant ripple from where his chest presses to your back. One thick arm wraps around your chest. Another slides around your stomach, keeping you steady. It's an embrace, you realize a second before he sinks teeth into your ear.

Your throat closes up, eyes following suit as he suckles and tugs, mouth hotter than even the day. Then he's dragging wet lips down your neck to nibble there, stubble scratching in fits and starts. A brief note of panic bubbles up -- too hard and it might _show_ \-- and you try to wriggle away. Arthur holds you firm, hums a soothing note under his breath as he moves down to where your blouse begins, finding a spot _just_ under the sleeve to suck and bite. You realize with a gratitude and shyness that spins the storage room. ...He's marking you only where your clothes hide.

"I'll take care of you." Arthur breathes into your skin, sticky and throbbing sweetly from his breath. "If you'll let me."

It's startling. Underneath this man's almost supernatural confidence is this low, melancholy _ache_. The timbre of someone who's done this sort of thing before, who's loved...and probably lost. You've heard it from men before, never surrendered willingly and usually with the aid of a drink or a pipe. Arthur's hand slides down your stomach, a pleasant heat soaking through your thin workdress and replacing the summer heat in fine fashion. His scratchy jawline is hooked over your shoulder, huffing you like a cigarette. You can't imagine you smell much better than dirt and hay...but you hope he likes it. _Pray_ he does.

"Yes, sir."

He palms you through your dress. Just that contact alone shoots heat to the pit of your stomach, makes you rock your hips in the hopes his fingers will curve. This man knows how to touch a woman. He hooks his hand right in, rubs you through the dress, middle finger pressing in _just_ where you open up. You bite your lip, swallow a whimper, still too nervous any noise could attract the wrong attention. You're starting to soak through your undergarments, every rub and teasing press as fierce as a slap. It's been...so _long_ since someone's touched you like this. You might not even last.

You hope you do. You don't want them changing their minds. The thought turns your gaze up to see what the other two have been doing...and your heart skips a beat. John and Javier are leaning on opposite sides of the wall.

Eyes on you.

"So...you gonna fuck her through her clothes?" John rasps, lazy tone fringed with impatience. Arthur reaches around your legs to grope your inner thigh, squeezing the soft flesh there.

"I think I'm gonna enjoy myself and you're going to _deal_."

All the while...Arthur has never stopped rocking against you. Even through the thick, worn denim you can feel how big he is. What he wants to _do_ to you. You stiffen to attention when the man abruptly tugs your dress up to expose your shins. His hand is huge, rough as old wood, but he works apart each button nimbly, all the way to your waistline. You want to help, but that could risk you taking _any_ sort of charge in a situation that feels just one notch kinder than sink or swim. You lean back against his chest, listen to his heartbeat and let him undress you. Your skin boils when cool air brushes along your bare thighs.

Then Arthur is reaching between your legs to feel you proper, and for a blissful moment...you can't think or worry at _all_.

" _Mierda_." Javier sighs happily. John hums agreement.

The first pass of his calloused fingertips is _too_ raw. You _gasp_ , hips hitching. Arthur mouths at your jaw absent-mindedly, swiping his fingers to gather up your slick, then returning. Your toes curl as he drags fingers over your clit again, flicking it once, twice, then pressing in and _kneading_ at the aching nub. Your hips follow his pattern, sloppy, bucking, greedy in a way you've _never_ been. His tongue slides along the shell of your ear, his breath a dappling warm beat:

"This good?" He asks. You nod, too much, and he chuckles, deeply. "Good to know."

He curls two fingers in you, digs right where you grow tender, and you drop your head back and finally surrender a tight, _blissful_ moan. Then he tugs his hand away.

"Up."

Your mind is buzzing. You start to stand, only to halt at Arthur's chuckle. He tugs you back down, nudges at your hips with his own until you're just leaning forward. He reaches between your legs to tug at his fly, shift himself out. It's somehow just what you expected and _more_. He's long and _thick_ , just a little curved, the swollen cherry head already glinting. His knuckles brush your clit as he starts to jerk himself off, your moan barely bitten off as you watch the oozing tip be swallowed up by his broad hand, then jut out, then vanish again. He settles his cock between your legs, rubs it up and down until he's glistening with your arousal. Then he cups your thighs with both hands and tells you to move one more time. You lean up...

...and let yourself be pulled back down.

"There you go..." Arthur grunts as he buries himself inside, the stretch a silky, aching burn that makes your mind go _blank_. "God..."

Your jaw hovers open, breath little more than a weak flutter as Arthur jerks his hips up, inches himself in. It feels like every ounce of you is pulling apart, wrapping around him, your world centered on the way he _twitches_ inside you. Just when his girth starts to hurt a little his balls press close, hair tickling your inner thighs. Buried to the hilt. Arthur presses his nose and lips against your cheek, right next to the corner of your mouth. His breath is tight. Strained.

"It's been a while. You okay with a little rough?" He huffs. You swallow, nod shakily, and _shiver_ when he twitches inside you again, the pulsing throb of a man struggling against the urge to fuck mindlessly. "...All right."

Still pressed close Arthur starts thrusting, slow, shallow little juts of his hips that hardly move you. It's hypnotic, the sight of his cock pistoning in and out between your splayed legs, your arousal oozing into the thick thatch of hair coating his balls. You're not the only one entranced. Not when the click of another belt turns your gaze up to the two men watching you by the door. Your skin _burns_ with the abrupt knowledge you've been whimpering and moaning this whole time. Caught between animal pleasure and acute embarrassment you fist a hasty hand in your dress to tug it down over yourself. Arthur promptly pulls your hand off by the wrist and tucks it up beneath your breasts, making you hold the dress up.

"Ain't nothing to be shy about, girl. Not as pretty as you are." His voice has turned hoarse, a sandy thrum against your cheek rougher than his stubble. He peppers aimless kisses along the side of your face, sliding in and out of you more smoothly now. His tongue laps out near the corner of your mouth, a pop of wetness that ripples goosebumps up your neck. "Give 'em a show."

It feels like a dream. Nothing about you has ever been like this, not when you were paid to be as unobtrusive as possible. Men look at you, sure. They look at you all the time. Leering, jeering, unwelcome. Often with the threat of violence. _This_ , though. Even with the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes Javier's stare is one of awe and gratitude, like he's been presented an incredible gift with no strings attached. It's hard to look away from such a handsome face, but somehow you do, down the man's flat stomach...to the dark hair dusting his navel...to where his slender fingers are wrapped around his cock. A little shorter than Arthur's, just as thick, rosy brown and dripping onto the floor with each lazy flick of the wrist.

"Best show I've seen in _years_ , if you ask me." He says, under his breath. Goodness, that smoky voice. It shudders through you, makes you clench, and Arthur drops his forehead against your shoulder and _groans_.

"Oh, _there_ we go." He suddenly thrusts, right where you ache, and you _whine_. "There we go, girl, that's what I _need-_ "

Whatever hesitation that kept him gentle is bleeding away. _Fast_. You gasp and scrabble weakly at Arthur's thighs as he speeds up the pace. The man's breath skims hot and hungry against your hair, rolling thrusts slapping wetly. Each stroke is a spark, a jagged stripe of heat that punches whimpers out between your clenched teeth. You hold the arm of the chair in a fierce grip, your other hand having subconsciously gripped the hem of your dress and twisted it into a triangle beneath your breasts. Every time you look up through your lashes you catch glimpses of dark eyes, focused with lust.

They're not the only ones getting a show. Javier is a _sight_ , leaning back with one arm relaxed at his side and his wrist flicking hypnotically, lips parted slightly on a steady stream of shallow pants. John, on the other hand, has hardly said a word or made a sound. You risk another glance his way, even though it's hard to keep your eyes open, and your breath freezes in your chest at what you find. He stares like he wants to devour you _whole_. He's nibbling his lip with a frustrated edge to his shoulders, practically rutting into his hand.

You can't think about the implications of this. Of _them_. Not with the heat coiling in your belly, threatening to unravel. You throw an arm up and around Arthur's neck, head sinking back against the curve of his shoulder and neck of its own accord, your pants reedy and thin to your ears as you try to retain a dignity you never really had.

"Good." He whispers into your skin in-between grunts, an endless cascade of generous praise you're already addicted to. "Don't be shy, you're being _so_ good to me, so _good-_ "

Then he stops talking, grip turning bruising as he pursues his release with an animalistic single-mindedness that might've scared you any other time. You never want it to end. The friction of each thrust, the way he _fills_ you. Your mind whispers he feels the same way, right when he bites the crook of your neck, groaning into your skin like you're the best thing that ever happened to him. You have no doubt, in these blurry, overwhelming seconds, you're _his_ , audience or no. One hand leaves your thigh, presses two calloused fingers to your clit and scrubs in a sloppy semi-circle, and-

-you _whine_ , an off-key, pathetic noise that rings out. Arthur's hand claps over your mouth.

" _Shh_."

You whimper and huff into his palm, utterly mortified and still unable to stop. You're so _close_. Through your lashes you see John running the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, eyes fixated between your legs. Javier curses a word you don't know under his breath, slowing his hand with visible difficulty. You squirm. You clench. You're so damn _close_. Helpless ripples are starting to flicker through you, the first few rocks before an avalanche. Arthur's pleased grunts in your ear are a lullaby, hand still clasped over your mouth and his thumb stroking your cheek. As if saying-

" _That's my good girl_."

That does it. You clench tight and _groan_ , violent shivers arching your back into a bow. It ripples spark-quick through your thighs, skitters over every nerve, a helpless fire that scours you through. Arthur's own voice is wrecked, growling muffled into the bruised skin of your neck as he slams into you, once, twice, _thrice_ , thick thighs flexing with need. Your climax keeps rippling as he does, an endless reverberation that turns you oversensitive, and for a few wild beats his thrusts are _too_ much, _too_ sharp. Then he's yanking out and pressing his cock against your belly to come onto your front in hot, messy streaks.

For a few seconds you're pressed against each other, gasping and shivering. The world only shifts back into focus when you're gently nudged forward again. You barely have it in you to be self-conscious as you both drift back to awareness. Arthur is careful as he helps you to your feet, though his expression is a different manner when Javier and John walk over to frame you on each side. Arthur's hair is sticking to his temple, his chest still twitching with exertion. He fixes them both with a stare that chills the heat in your blood.

"Pull out."

Javier shrugs, a careless little motion. John lifts his chin and stares back a challenge of his own. That same metaphor flits in your mind. Of wild animals and their wild rules.

"I ain't gonna get her pregnant, if _that's_ what you're fussin' about. I learned my lesson." He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulling out a little tin of balm. Waves it from side-to-side, metal glinting like a coin. Your stomach clenches at the implication. Arthur's lip curls in a silent growl.

"I ain't gonna repeat myself."

Your heartrate is starting to elevate again, this time with a subtle fear that you've gotten into a bigger mess than you can handle. There's no time to dwell or doubt, though. Not with all of you already pushing luck. A slender-and-rough hand cups your chin and pulls you into another kiss. It's swift, rich, hardly lasting more than a moment, but it leaves you dizzy, even before you pull back and see Javier's smile. ... _Goodness_. It's the kind of image you know has graced many a daydream.

"They're always squabbling." He says with a thoughtful frown, even that expression endearing. "Drop a penny and they'll find a reason to bicker. It's not your fault."

That's...promising. It's difficult not to smile, exhausted and overwhelmed as you are, and this must be a man deeply familiar with these emotions, because he's gentle as he leads you away from the chair, cupping the back of your head.

"Might be your fault _later_ , though." Javier adds under his breath, and the look in his eyes is intense enough you break the gaze and stare elsewhere. At the small scar on his cheekbone. At the long, thin scar wrapping around his neck. It's horrifying, how much damage is beneath this silky veneer. This poor man. When you meet his gaze he must see some of your thoughts, because that stern, chiseled face grows gentle. He lifts up your hand and kisses it. Butterflies tickle your stomach.

"Ay, none of that. It's not all so bad, hm?" He murmurs into your palm. "I'm sure you've got a few of your own."

Where Arthur held you like an ex-lover, Javier holds you like an honored guest, one hand still delicately holding yours up in the air like he's asking you to the dance floor, the other resting on the small of your back. He nips at your bottom lip, tugging once, twice, then _rolls_ it between his teeth. He tastes like cigarettes, too, and something else more herbal your mind can't quite place. A touch of cinnamon _just_ beneath it all, the first you've ever smelled it on a man. Your kisses feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for distaste he doesn't seem to care at all. When Javier pulls away and leans down to explore you catch a whiff of his hair, freshly washed and reminding you of spring mornings.

Your mind wanders nowhere in particular as the man sucks his way down your collarbone to your breasts. You don't know what he wants to do, but at this point...you're sure you'd agree to _anything_. A tall, lean presence settles behind you, then, and the rustic scent of sweat and horse flesh overwhelms.

"For the record, Arthur usually starts it."

John drags hands up your sides, a blunt touch where Arthur had been keen and Javier silky as a bedsheet. He leans in to lick away the sweat dotting your neck, squeezing your sides a little, feeling you up. There are no platitudes or flirting, a notable difference that has you prickling nervously.

"For the record, _both_ of them are full of shit." Javier chuckles, flashing teeth before moving back down.

Even then...there's still none of the domineering control you're so used to. John's lustful grinding is a startling contrast to the almost _kindly_ way he holds your hips, like you're a virgin he doesn't want to scare off. You're pulled entirely off-balance. Pressed between two handsome men, guided along rapids defined by hungry kisses and painfully considerate touches. Javier tugs down your bra, pulling free one of your breasts so he can suck on your nipple; your arm moves up to wrap around his shoulders, your fingers unconsciously toying with his ponytail. Your other curls up and around John's neck, his hair tickling your forearm.

"Remember we don't have all day." Arthur murmurs from where he's now leaning against the wall by the chair, arms crossed and head tilted back with an expression caught between relaxed and watchful. You can sense that hunger from before simmering somewhere beneath his words, like the smoke before a fire, but it's...different. Focused, somehow. "They'll be back with their horses _and_ snobbery in fine form."

He's right, but, to your amazement, it's hard to care. You've been vulnerable all your life, yet now you're all but being _devoured_ , their mouths travling along what feels like every expanse of bare skin to mark and mark and _mark_. The thin skin along your chest is growing sore. You already know Javier has left an impressive cluster of bruises. When he pulls off your nipple you _hiss_ , the cool air stinging the sore, wet flesh. He's a passionate man. An insistent one. You angle your head as he gnaws and suck beneath your chin, breath huffing hot. You catch something sharp glinting in his eyes beneath the brim of his hat, a shard of glass in dark waters, and a twine of happy fear threads through your lust.

You're learning so much...and so _little_.

"We're not as out of practice as you, Arthur." Javier leans down to attend a spot he missed on the curve of your shoulder, a knife-sharp nip that makes you jerk. "We got this."

John nudges your chin insistently with his nose, sliding his tongue in your mouth when you turn. The taste of him is musky, overpowering in a way that makes your knees weak. In the glimpse between straggled hair and blissful darkness you catch the way Arthur's eyes narrow, soft blue chilling into ice. It's a frightening flicker of violence behind the polite indifference, a permanent note of warning stamping right into the back of your mind for future reference. You arch into Javier when one of John's hands reaches up to paw at your breast, pinching at your nipple. His chuckle is a raspy scratch against your lips. Where Javier is subtle, even graceful, this man doesn't seem to bother with the notion at _all_.

"Oh, that ain't it." John kisses you again, thrusting his tongue in like he's already practicing how to fuck you. Your squeak is muffled when he pinches your ass hard enough to bruise. "He's _jealous_."

Arthur snorts. Crosses his arms and leans his head back and to one side to stare at something across the room. It's a good show of irritation, but the truth's already out, a hammer in your heart that beats true. ...So _that's_ what was on his face.

It doesn't have a chance to sink in. You're all on a deadline and it looms ever closer with each stolen minute on the Braithwaites' time. In the distance you can hear a stablehand calling out to the west gate, words indistinct and the cadence still familiar enough to suggest activity. It might be Zachariah back from hooky. It might not. You rub against John's erection (not just for time's sake), pressing back enough to feel it nestle pleasantly between your cheeks. John's breath hisses sharp through his nose. He gives your ear one last nip, almost hard enough to break the skin, then presses firm hands on your ass. He wants you on your knees. You hike your dress up and lean down carefully.

You thought you were vulnerable before, bouncing in Arthur's lap like a whore, but you're overwhelmed all over again as you get onto your hands and knees on the hardwood floor. Javier settles in front of you with his fingers twining in your hair playfully, wet tip of his cock brushing against your chin. John kneels behind you, hands a warm, insistent weight on your hips. ...Then he hesitates. He leans forward, enough for his breath to dust your cheek, feathery and shallow.

"You tell me if I'm goin' too fast, okay?"

When you look over your shoulder John's gaze is unyielding and somehow skittish, like a wild animal caught in the open. That glimmer of softness, rebelling against a litany of scars and a thorny voice. When you nod he settles back enough to fiddle with something. The first finger is a shock. It's not cold, but you squeak. Javier chides him for being hasty. This man keeps one hand on your head, one thumb stroking your temple in a slow back-and-forth and the other around his cock again. It's a dream. It _has_ to be. Even on your knees and at the mercy of outlaws you've never been more respected, more _treasured_ , and for a moment you're more scared of this than even the Madam's temper.

All thoughts screech to a halt when Javier's hand slides down to cup your jaw. He leans his hips back, enough so the silky smooth tip of his cock bumps against your lips.

"You ever do this before?" He asks, twitching his hips for context. You shake your head, ever so slightly. His smile is a crooked, sultry little thing. "...Well. With lips like yours you won't have to do much."

Javier hooks his thumb in your lip (calloused and blunted enough to make you wonder if he plays an instrument). He nudges your mouth open, leaning forward to push the head of his cock onto your tongue. Where Arthur had leaked Javier is _dripping_ , a salty sweet taste that makes your mouth water. Your nails press into the floorboards as you close your eyes and start to suck, careful not to scrape him with your teeth, wanting _nothing_ more than to hear that smile in his voice again...

...then you choke when John leans over you and slides inside, a slow, thick, strange stretch that pops your eyes open again. It almost hurts, the ache of pain and pleasure blurring and swelling. Just halfway through (you think) and it's too much. You shift, _squirm_ , spreading your legs instinctively and bumping your teeth against the cock in your mouth. You wince when Javier hisses.

" _Ah, ah, ah_." The man chides, tugging your hair. You blink up at him, mortified, and he huffs a laugh. "Careful."

Oh, you _want_ to apologize, but it's all you can do to hope your eyes get across the sentiment as John leans over you to murmur a question into your hair. It's not that you don't want it...it's just a _lot_ , and you hope he gets that, too. When you rock against him he rocks back, sinking in another aching, incredible inch. Again. Again. Again. Then he's _all_ the way inside, his angular hips digging into the bruises he left. Javier pushes in further, sliding over your tongue. The sheer taste and feel of these men inside you is intoxicating. Your eyes droop low, body starting to rock of its own volition, or perhaps its them moving you back and forth as they take their pleasure.

"You have lovely eyes." Javier murmurs. His voice dips low. "...Look at me."

It's not a request. Your face grows hot, ridiculously shy even with Arthur's release sticky all over your stomach, and yet...surrendering has never felt more freeing than it does this muggy afternoon. You obey. You look up through your lashes at Javier's handsome face in shadow, a light breeze swaying the loose strands of hair. His smile is indulgent, preening, a sliver of white between slender lips. He grips your hair as surely as horse's reins and fucks your mouth, a slow slide that gets deeper with every thrust. His balls brush your chin at one point, making you cough, and his lips curve when your throat clamps fitfully around him.

"Ay, cariño..." Javier growls under his breath, grip on your hair tightening briefly. " _Gorgeous_."

Your chest blooms happily. A similar heat travels up your spine as John slides his hand along your back, hips rocking as slowly as a pendulum. He doesn't speak, but the repetitive, hitching groans are more than enough.

"Pet names?" You hear Arthur drawl. "Already?"

Javier laughs, hoarsely, and pets your head appreciatively.

"Don't be mad because you skipped your chance, _sir_."

Another snort follows. Softer this time. You can't move your head, but you hear the click of a belt to your right, and somehow you know Arthur is touching himself again at just at the sight of you. You're going to look like you've fallen off a horse before the day's over. John's patience is a struggle you can _feel_ , his cock twitching with each shallow, tense thrust, two sets of nails digging crescents into your hips. The cautious part of you, the one still owned by the Braithwaites, hopes he doesn't go too far and hurt you. The other part of you, growing more ravenous by the minute, wants him to lose himself in your body.

" _Goddamn_." John suddenly breathes, hips suddenly snapping against you, like he can't _help_ himself, and, oh, you _wish_ you could see his face as he takes you.

It's strange. It's wonderful. Pleasure flickers through you with each thrust, popping in your thighs and seeping right up to where you're growing wet all over again. You rock back against him again, and once is all he needs. John leans up over your back, until his hot breath is skirting the back of your neck, starts to thrust in earnest. The motion moves you _up_ Javier's cock, the tip digging into the back of your throat and making you gag. You _try_ not to, even as your eyes water and your throat catches, again and again. They move like a well-oiled machine, rocking you back and forth between them in a practiced fuck.

They were already getting close by the time Arthur finished. John digs the rounds of his fingers into your ass, shifting his knees wider to thrust harder, obscene slaps of flesh on flesh that could be heard across the estate. He feels impossibly thick, every stroke _just_ slippery enough not to hurt, just rough enough to skitter tight, filthy pleasure up your spine. One hand presses again to your lower back, almost intimate. The other snakes around, cups and squishes your bruised breast. John's grunts are low, soft, a rhythmic rasping beneath Javier's low, constant groan. You realize he's quiet not because he's disinterested. Quite the opposite; it's as if he's actively holding himself _back_.

It strikes you, suddenly, the _power_ you have over these men. They wanted you before they even walked through the front gate. It's hard to move in this position, but you don't need to. You squeeze around John, who _curses_ , and moan around Javier, a faint but unmistakeable thrum. The man scrapes fingers against your scalp, cock twitching on your tongue.

" _Ah-_ " Javier is the first to break eye contact, both hands in your hair now, hips jerking helplessly. "Ah, shit-"

He thrusts deep into your mouth and you _choke_ , a hard fucking that has your nose grinding against his stomach...then he tugs out, fisting your hair and yanking your head to face the ceiling so he can come on your face and neck. His orgasm is a work of art, a hoarse tumble of curses with his head tossed back, hips jerking as he stripes evidence of your treachery all over your skin. You cough and wheeze on all the extra air, drool and his release dripping down your chin. There's no time to clean yourself up. You're suddenly exclusive, and John takes advantage of it to tug you up so you're flush against his chest. The mess on your front dribbles down your collar, trickles between your breasts, and you can't focus on _any_ of it, because the man's gripping you fiercely and _pounding_.

Javier's release drips into your mouth salty and bitter as you drape your head back. John doesn't seem to care at all, holding you firmly in place with an arm hooked around your collar, smudging it across your breasts.

"Careful, John." Javier cautions, leaning against the wall and tiredly tucking himself back into his pants. Now that he's done his voice is an exhausted, sated purr. "Don't want to-"

"Oh, give it a _rest_ , already." John growls over your shoulder, panting through gritted teeth.

The hand by your hip slithers down to reach between your legs, scrubbing fingers over your clit, coarse strokes that are too much and _just right_. He touches you...much like _Arthur_ did, rubbing and pressing until pleasure is washing over you in waves. Your climax is just as rough, the man inside you feeling _impossibly_ large as you clench feebly, his thrusts speeding up as he fucks you right through it. John's voice is a mangled wreck against your temple, the scent of sex and sweat filling you. He tugs out and presses up against you, coming all over your back.

...and it's done. John blows out an exhausted, sated sigh against your hair. He helps you to your feet, even though you feel like a stiff breeze could blow you away. The man doesn't look much different. That fierce scowl of his has bled away, his eyes almost soft as he tugs your blouse back up. Unspoken words thin his mouth, gaze not meeting yours, and it's only his gentle touch that has you convinced it's not you that has him this way.

"Time to go." Javier says behind you.

John puts himself away, tugging up his pants. Javier tucks in his waistline, then adjusts his ascot. It knots your stomach a little, how quickly this all has to be wrapped up. They compose themselves with the haste of men who are used to operating on time limits. You're a mess. There are growing bruises all over your breasts, your collar, your hips and thighs and ass. Arthur's release is sticking your dress to your stomach, Javier's still warm between your breasts and John's tickling the hair on your spine. Javier pulls you over to him, one of the leather oil rags in one hand.

"Almost don't want to do anything." His voice was already hypnotizing. It's sex-rough now, like fingers massaging your scalp. He moves one thumb to smudge his release over your chin, pushing it up and into your mouth. When you suck it off he grins crookedly. "You look good like this."

It's hard to believe such an impulsive, risky thing is done. Done so _well_. You're still dazed from it all, aching inside and out, something worse bruising your heart. You watch Javier's almost thoughtful expression as he mops up the mess on your front. Long, deliberate swipes down the length of your neck, dipping between your breasts, then up and around, his fingers feeling you through the fabric appreciatively. You never want him to stop touching you.

"We'll grab the horses." John rasps, hair falling over his eyes as he double-checks his belt.

Then he pauses and blinks at you, as if remembering something. You blink when John cups the back of your neck and tugs you in for a kiss. It's somehow smoldering and painfully brief, his mouth crushed against yours like he hasn't seen you in years. Then he's tugging away without a word, adjusting his hat and vanishing into the bright afternoon, duster flapping around his legs. You stare after him, sure you're under a spell...only to feel your hand lifted again. Javier is holding it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.

"...Take care of yourself." His smile is a little bittersweet, the kind a man only has when he's said this sort of thing before. He steps back smoothly, letting your hand slide out of his until they fall out of reach. "You'll get your money."

Then he's jogging through the doors after John, an effortless loping through the white glare. You turn back around-

-and Arthur is cupping your cheeks and kissing you _hard_.

For a deluded moment you wonder if this is what it's like to be loved. Then Arthur is picking you up and pushing you against the wall. You hook both arms around his shoulders instinctively, legs gripping his sides in an attempt not to fall. There's no gentle deliberation this time. The man shoves himself into you again, as deep as he can, and you hold on for dear life.

"We ain't horse dealers." Arthur pants into your ear over your broken gasps. "We ain't even _professional_ rustlers." He shifts you up the wall to adjust his grip, still bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing. "We're outlaws. We steal. We kill."

His words are somehow brutal and solemn, a confession breathed between your parted lips. You try to focus, an impossible task when we's stretching you perfectly, so thick and achingly hard you could _weep_. Your toes curl when Arthur bites his lip, blistering stare searing you to the bone. You scrape nails along the endless expanse of his broad back, bunch up the fabric beneath your sweaty palms.

"But we have _standards_." His face is flushed a beautiful rosy red, the cords of his neck pronounced under a sheen of sweat. He struggles to clamp down on a moan all while speaking, a clipped note catching and dying in his throat. "We're a family. A team. If you need a place...somewhere to hide or stay...you come _find_ us. You pull your weight and we'll take care of you in turn." He leans his forehead against yours. "Do you understand me?"

You stare into those hungry, sad, _fierce_ eyes, as long as you can with your peak furling low in your belly again. A sweet, sweet agony that only threatens to get worse.

"Yes, sir."

"You might have to steal and kill, too." He shudders and crushes his eyes shut for a moment, cock throbbing plaintively. When he captures your gaze again his pupils are blown, strands of hair brushing his brow. "Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You ain't no Braithwaite or hanger-on. They were _lucky_ to have you." Your heart clenches at the sincerity of his words. "You come with us..." Arthur kisses the side of your neck, open-mouthed and loose, teeth more a hint than a reality. "...and you can wear whatever you _want_."

Flowers in your hair. Flowers on your skin. The grainy film of your cloistered life blossoms into incredible color, and even this wish alone is more than you've ever had.

" _Yes, sir_."

At that he huffs.

"Call me Arthur."

He tugs out sharply, lifting up one of your legs so he can push back inside, this time in your ass, still slick and sore. You whine and scrabble at his back in some meager attempt to slow him down, or encourage him, you don't _know_. Arthur presses his full weight against you, pounding with _purpose_ , thrusts becoming more and more erratic until he's shoving himself deep and groaning. Your high has you floating, your ears faintly ringing, but it's impossible to miss the subtle swell of his cock, nor the heat that tickles after. Marking you, just like the bruises on your breasts and hips.

Then he's setting you back down and pulling your undergarments back up. Tying and buckling himself back into the upstanding horse buyer he's pretending to be. You watch in a haze as he pulls your bra strap back up, adjusts your dress around your waist.

"We wear bandanas to conceal our identity, but we won't be able to show ourselves around here for a while once it's done. There anyone you don't want shot?"

You're still floating back down. You blink slowly. Just beyond the boundaries of your hearing you think you catch the sounds of activity down the side road.

"...Harry." You manage. "He...he has a thick black beard and a straw hat. He works the fields. He's not so bad."

"Okay." He says, and it hits you that your tired, hot, long days are about to become very, _very_ bloody. "What should we know before going in?"

"They hire some guns and some of their sons to guard the coach." You tremble when Arthur tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze heavier than you can hold. "They enter through the back and take the horses to the stables immediately. You shouldn't be seen."

"All right. You find an excuse to get your things and pack up as much as you can carry. Wait until the danger's over, then get out of here. Anyone asks in-between, play the part of the damsel and tell them we held you at gunpoint." Arthur instructs. "Find our camp at Clemens Point, along the riverbed. Don't be sneaky, either, or you're like to get shot. Just tell them Arthur Morgan sent you." He shrugs a little, not looking at you for a moment. "Or one of the others, if you want." Then he does look back. "...Thank you."

He has _nothing_ to thank you for. Not after what he and his peers gave you. _Will_ give you, if they're not shot between the eyes. The thought alone breaks your heart. You take one more leap of faith and kiss him. Arthur doesn't move, but you feel his chest still beneath your hands, heart kicking up like a patter of hooves.

"...Thank you for giving me a chance." You whisper when you pull back.

Arthur slowly smiles, reaching over to rub his thumb over your cheek.

"More should, darling."

You watch his retreating back disappear into the sunlight, your heart cradled in sweet limbo.

The day is hotter than ever when you tidy up the shed and return to the outside world. You look at the rolling green hills and dusty trails framing the Braithwaite estate. The impassive corn fields and white picket fence. For once...you're not afraid. For once...you're not numb and resigned to the long, lonely hours ahead. This is what hope feels like. Achilles nickers when you walk back in. Not only is he cramped in his stall, he's also without his usual company. Poor thing. If there's anything you'll miss from this place, it's the horses. You hope they find some escape, too.

The stallion's diet is strict, but not so strict you can't sneak him a few extra carrot slices. As you slice and dice you hum to yourself, lost in thoughts of dark eyes and crooked scars. Maybe you wouldn't even make it past today. What much could a stablehand do, claim to fame limited to horse knowledge and a tentative relationship with hope? If you did, though...if you _did_...you can feel your soul turning to the deep river at Clemens Point. You can already imagine it; a pale wildflower in your hair and your suitcase at one side, taking your first breath of freedom to call the names of three men who made you believe you could be more.

You're torn out of your thoughts when a gunshot rings out. Then another. Then another.

" _Stop! Stop, we're being **robbed!** "_

Achilles whinnies and tosses his head, ears pricked high in alarm. You reach out and pet his silky nose to keep him from aggravating that bad ankle.

"...Our little secret, okay?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw
> 
>  
> 
> This was an interesting indulgent little diversion from what I usually do. My favorite kind of porn is when feels are sprinkled in like a garnish. /Reader-type fics are becoming more interesting to me and I wonder if it's because I've always had a soft spot for choose-your-own adventure-type stories, like multiple-ending children's books and epic RPGs. While it doesn't _technically_ count, there's still a similar approach of sticking the reader in as a self-insert, playing around with vaguery and fantasy to whisk you away. I'll be thinking more about this going forward. To anyone interested in sharing: why do you read these types of stories (or usually _don't_ , if you're picky like me)?
> 
> Remember, ladies: the cowboy hat stays _on_ during sex.


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